


The Nature of Tragedy

by Phoeberg



Category: Charmed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoeberg/pseuds/Phoeberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tragedy strikes us all sooner or later." Following the murder of her sister there's one thing Prue Halliwell wants more than anything else: justice. Luckily for her the SFPD homicide inspector investigating wants that too. But mourning is about more than the five stages of grief and she's about to find out that she's not as strong as she thought she was. AU. Andy/Prue, Piper/Leo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Tragedy

I hate murders. As a homicide detective a lot of people would probably tell me I'm in the wrong job but it never gets easier, seeing how despicable, how abhorrent human beings can be to one another. But the job's worth it when you get to arrest the scumbags responsible. Offer a little justice to the victims and their families, even if it is only a little.

Morris is waiting for me outside the house, looking impatient.

"Traffic," I say, before he can ask where I've been and he scowls at my inadequate excuse. "So who's the vic?"

"Phoebe Halliwell, in her early twenties. Looks like she's been strangled."

"Strangled," I repeat.

"Yeah. She lived here with her boyfriend."

With a sinking heart I know already that he is most likely the one responsible.

I still ask, "Where's he then?" but Morris' face says it all.

"Your guess is as good as mine," he says, shrugging. "Looks like he's run for it."

"Fantastic," I mutter.

Sighing, I follow Morris through the house to where the girl's body is. Forensics are already there and I have to walk around them to see her. She's pretty, the girl, or at least she was when she was alive, but she looks broken. They always look broken, like rag dolls, lifeless and limp, although some more than others. She's young, too, and I think instantly of all she could have had in front of her and how pointless it is that she's had it taken away from her for nothing.

I turn away from the sight to face Morris again. "How do you know the boyfriend's run?"

"I don't know for sure, but it certainly looks that way. Somebody's been through some of the drawers and the closet in the bedroom in a hurry.

"Passport?"

"Maybe."

"What about next of kin?"

"Look into it when you get back to the station," he tells me. "I'll stay here."

I'm relieved to get out of the house and I willingly leave. It's easier to breathe outside, away from the body. It seems unbelievable that the sun is still shining out here and that somewhere nearby a bird is singing when inside the darkened house just behind me lies a dead woman.

I start to head away from the house towards where my car is parked, just beyond the police tape the officers have used to cordon off the house and I'm almost there when I get waylaid by another woman, not so unlike the one I've just left behind. Only this one is very real and very alive as she grabs onto my jacket sleeve tightly.

"What's happening?" She demands, glancing beyond me towards the house instead. She's breathless, and frankly she looks scared out of her wits.

I stare at her in momentary disbelief, wondering what exactly she thinks she's doing accosting me at a murder scene and whether she's mistaken me for somebody else, but she doesn't look apologetic or confused. She looks desperate.

"Who are you?" I ask her finally, regaining some of my composure and trying to sound authoritative.

"My sister, Phoebe, is she alright?" She asks me, ignoring my question although I suppose she's kind of answered it with her own question. Sister. My heart sinks and I hesitate in answering, my first mistake, because she picks up on it immediately.

"Phoebe," she says again as if she thinks I might have misheard her, looking even more desperate.

I try to get it together, attempting to prize her hands from their grip on my jacket so that I can get her away from me to somewhere where someone else can tell her the bad news. Bad news. Awful news more like.

"If you'd like to wait over there, someone will come to speak with you shortly," I say, trying to sound professional although I feel anything but. I place a hand on her arm to steer her away from where all the cops talking, oblivious to the two of us, but she pushes me off impatiently.

"My sister," she repeats. "Please tell me she's okay. Please."

I stare at her and no words come out. I should not be the one to tell her, I'm not really qualified to begin with. We have people specially trained for this job, but the problem is not one of them is around right now, and if I don't say her sister is okay then she'll know she isn't, but I can't lie either. It's a catch-22.

I realize then that she knows what I'm going to tell her, that she knows but she wants me to tell her otherwise, that she wants desperately to be wrong, and until I actually say the words then there's still a chance, isn't there?

"What's your name?" I ask her gently.

She stares at me for several seconds and then her face crumples. "No," she insists. "Tell me."

I think about how to phrase it so that it will hurt the least, even though I know it's impossible to do that. No one can lessen the pain of what I'm about to tell her.

"Your sister…" She's shaking her head and I have no idea how to continue that sentence anyway. "I'm sorry," I say finally.

She grabs onto the sleeve of my jacket again as if she can't stand up anymore, so I grab onto her arm in return just in case.

"Why did you have to tell me?" She asks, as if it is me telling her that has taken her sister away.

I stare helplessly at her. She looks back at me for several seconds as if she really expects an answer and then her face crumples. Now it feels as if I really am holding her up, so I try to lead her to sit down somewhere, but the furthest away from the house I can get her is my car so I open the backdoor for her and make her sit down on the backseat, facing outwards towards me.

"She…she can't be gone," she says to me. "She's my baby sister. I'm supposed to look after her, to protect her from things like this!"

I crouch down in front of her and rest a hand on her shoulder. She's really crying now.

"Where is he?" She asks through loud sobs.

I know who she means. The boyfriend.

"We're trying to locate him," I inform her, the official line on it, although I know it sounds pathetic.

"You mean you don't know," she accuses. This makes her cry louder, so I start rubbing her shoulder with my thumb, a weak gesture while wondering where the hell the people who are supposed to do this are.

"Here, let me get you a tissue," I say gently as she wipes her cheeks with her hands. I start to stand up but her hand darts out and holds onto my jacket sleeve.

"Don't go," she says, staring at me desperately. "Don't leave me alone!"

I hesitate, but her face is too imploring to turn away from even though I want to. I'm not very good at comforting people.

"I think I have some tissues in the glove compartment," I say softly. "Let me just look there."

She nods, letting go of my sleeve so I can open the passenger door to check.

"I want my sister back," she whispers behind me. I turn back with a packet of tissues and press one of them into her hand.

"I know," I murmur. "I know you do."

She wipes her cheeks and eyes.

"Where is she?" She asks me and I frown. "I mean, where is…her…" She trails off and I realize what she means.

"She's inside."

Her eyes dart to the house. "I want to see her."

"Listen…" I realize she hasn't told me her name yet. "Listen honey," I say in lieu of a name. She focuses back on me. "I don't think that's a good idea right now, and even if I wanted to let you, I couldn't. Forensics are in there. The best thing you could do is go home. Is there anybody you can call?"

This seems to trigger something in her memory, because she starts crying again, hard. "Piper," she says. "Someone has to call Piper."

"Who's Piper?"

"My other sister," she manages to say. "Oh god, I can't tell her, I can't."

"You won't have to," I reassure her, glancing around yet again for someone who will.

She leans her head forward to rest on her knees and sobs.

"Hey," I murmur, trying to find the words to help her as I rest a hand on her back.

"This is all my fault," she tells me through muffled hands.

"How is it your fault?"

"I should have made her leave him, I should have pressed harder. I knew. I knew he'd do something like this one day."

I glance around, but surprisingly nobody's paying much attention to us, maybe because of the distance we are from the house, outside the sanctity of the cordon.

"Move up," I tell her.

"What?" She asks, looking up with tear-stained cheeks.

"The car, move up along the backseat."

She does as I say and I climb in next to her, leaving the door open so as not to alarm her. She's blinking at me through tears.

"What's your name?" I ask her, hoping this time she'll answer me.

"Prue," she replies.

"Prue," I repeat. "I know this hurts. I can't imagine how much, but I know that much. But I promise you we will find your sister's boyfriend."

Another tear rolls down her cheek as she nods blindly in response and I wonder if she even heard me.

"I promise," I repeat. "I promise."


End file.
